The Guilty
by Sorlk Lewis
Summary: "Sometimes things don't happen quite the way you imagine them..."


**Summary:** _"Sometimes things don't happen quite the way you imagine them..."_  
**Story Notes:** Post _Bad Timing_ angst. A dark character piece on the possible future for Crichton, when both his action and inaction have consequences he isn't ready to live with.  
**Author's Note:** I'm a fan of the bleak and ambiguous.  Sorry if it's too much.  
**Warning:** Not bedtime story material.  
**Disclaimer:** _Farscape_ is © and ™ Jim Henson Productions, et al. I'm just borrowing their toys for a little while and I'll try to return them unbroken. 

* * *

**_Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do._ - Voltaire**

* * *

"You a Peacekeeper?" He was frightened. The tremble in his hand, the spark of fear in his pale red eyes. He was terrified of him. 

Crichton hesitated. He wanted to say yes so they would leave him alone. Finally, he shook his head and murmured, "No." 

Something relaxed in the diminutive creature, a strange curiosity replacing his earlier terror. "Not a Peacekeeper?" 

Again he shook his head, "Not a Peacekeeper." No, not a Peacekeeper. Something worse. 

"You are Sebacean." A statement. What was there, that looked like him, other than Sebaceans? Crichton nodded. The less anyone really knew, the better. 

Keir smiled slightly and nodded before setting down the plate of food and scuttling into the back of the cantina, his steps echoing out long after he'd vanished behind a wall. 

Crichton shifted in the uncomfortable wood chair and ran his thumb around the top of his glass, soaking in the atmosphere of the run-down establishment. The stained floor, the grimy table tops. The bleak darkness of it all. 

Reaching across the table for the greasy plate, he started to pick at the food. It was worse than his drink. Nothing tasted good anymore, though. 

Keir reappeared at his table, "Food good?" 

"Yeah, it's fine." 

"Good." He stood there, looking Crichton over, deciding something about him. Crichton stared back at him, his gaze cold and hard. Keir darted off again. 

Crichton's brow furrowed. This hadn't been a good idea. 

Dropping his money on the table, he left. 

* * *

He watched the scene unfold with detached interest. They had the pathetic creature on the ground, kicking and stomping it. It didn't have any hope. 

They laughed and joked, not thinking about how it would feel to be the one dying in the dusty street. It's wasn't hard for him to imagine himself laughing along with them. He didn't, though. He only watched. 

There were five of them. They were cruel and hard. Consummate Peacekeepers. He saw the creatures pale red eyes look to him through the billows of dust for help before flinching from another kick. It knew it would die. 

The amusement ended, but only because the creature wasn't moving, all life beaten out of it. A final blow to the head and they were satisfied, moving down the street in a pack, watching for their next victim. 

Keir had been terrified of John Crichton for a very good reason. 

* * *

Ten solar days. He laid on his stomach and wrote equations in the dust that had accumulated on floor next to his cot. Not twelve. The apex of a wormhole. He wondered if there was a mathematical equation for fate... 

_Kajargan's Sea_... the name coursed through his mind. His hand stilled. Ten solar days ago they'd been here. Not twelve. Absently, he ran his fingers over the freshly formed line of scar tissue that ran down and across his lowerback. Something worse than a Peacekeeper. 

_"I did this. I'll fix it. I'll live with it either way."_

Crichton rolled onto his back and stared at the stained ceiling. It'd been two solar days since he'd last slept. Nightmares. Running, screaming, a baby crying. Always frelling nightmares. He was tired. Tired of everything. 

One of his hands rested on his pulse pistol. His life line. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander through wormholes and unrealized realities. 

_"What did you imagine... for your life..."_

War. It was no longer imminent. It was there. Now. A commando unit had been slaughtered three days ago. Retaliation was imminent. And it was his fault. They'd never let him forget it. "Wanted: One Hollow Human" 

Earth had no idea of the nightmares that awaited them. The constant fear. Sleeping with your hand on a pulse pistol. There was no way he could've explained it. Not to their signed, stamped and sealed specifications. 

_"What's my tell?"_

He was suddenly angry at everyone. At Earth and their politics. His dad for not understanding. Olivia for understanding too much. And Aeryn. They had no right to judge. They didn't know. Not even Aeryn. They couldn't know. 

It was because of her there was a _then_ and a _now_. And she did have a right to judge, but she still couldn't... couldn't see the scope of the problem. He wondered where she was right then, if she was even still alive. 

_"You once said it was as if the fates meant for us to be together."_

He rolled off the bed and moved to the window, cracking open the rotten wooden shutters. It was dark out. The air was thick and choking. 

_"And I believe that."_

Ten solar days. Not twelve. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His shirt was already soaked through. He didn't have a spare. 

_"Well then, if it's true, we'll be together again."_

* * *

He saw them through the crowd. They went into a cantina. Another minute and D'Argo left. Was Chiana still blind? Crichton wondered if it had been worth it. 

He shoved his way through the crowd and into the cool interior of the decaying building. Everything in this end of the universe was decaying. She was sitting with her back against a wall, her eyes staring blankly at the table, a cup in her hand. Crichton hesitated. What if he didn't want to go back? Back to what there was, what there had been. 

He edged closer to her and she stirred. He froze. He wanted to say something to her. Something – anything. He wanted to tell her he was back and it'd be all right. Everything would be the way it used to be. He'd have Aeryn and she'd have her eyesight. 

"Who's there?" she asked. 

Crichton couldn't do it. He turned to leave. D'Argo stood in the doorway. 

"John... ?" he asked cautiously. A smile slowly spread across the Luxan's face as shock was replaced with elation; "John!" Crichton was taken up in an embrace that could kill. He wished it would. 

* * *

It'd been twelve solar days. Twelve. Chiana was doing better, but still blind. Stark had left. Noranti stayed in her quarters except when she tried to push drugs on him. He wanted to take them. Badly. Forget everything. "Don't Worry. Be Happy." He didn't. 

Rygel was fine. D'Argo was fine. Still no Aeryn. 

"Pilot," he said, his voice thick and unnatural sounding. He skimmed his hand along the base of the console. He and Aeryn had sat here once or twice. 

"Yes, Commander?" 

"What happened?" 

Pilot hesitated, "What do you mean?" 

"Kajargan's Sea... what happened?" 

"You... you don't know?" The silence was answer enough for both of them. "You were..." He wasn't sure of how to put it. "Crystalized. I think." 

He didn't know. Crichton sighed and stilled his hand when he realized he was writing equations again. A DRD sat a few feet away, watching him. It beeped. 

"How long has it been... ?" 

"It's been almost half a cycle, Commander." 

Crichton had to close his eyes. It wasn't a choice, he had to. Half a cycle. There was something that sounded like pity in Pilot's voice. Tears spilled over and caught him offguard. He wiped his eyes and stood up. He had to get away from everyone. 

* * *

He laid on the cool floor of Aeryn's old quarters. The floor was covered in equations. He thought he had it figured out. The mathematics of fate. Everything was made up of numbers. Fate wasn't immune. 

He thought back to Keir's pale red eyes and all the eyes he'd seen before them. At one time he would have felt a pang of guilt for doing what he did. Not now. It would have happened with our without him there. He couldn't have changed it. It was mathematical fact. You couldn't alter that. 

Fin 


End file.
